Page 52 of The Vanishing Throne

‘It’s been three years, Aileana,’Gavin says. ‘I’m different. I had to adapt to survive. And you … ’ He searches my face. ‘You weren’t here for any of it. Not the hunt or the fall of the cities. You don’t know what we went through.’

Why save your home instead of mine?

Show me. Now.

I only saw the smoke and the buildings. The destruction and the ash as the buildings burned. I wasn’t here to see all those people massacred by the fae army. I wasn’t here while the survivors picked up the pieces.

‘No, I don’t,’ I say.Gavin looks around my room. He never saw it before it was destroyed. I changed it after he had left for university. One time I snuck him up to my old room, my—

I can create it for him, I realise. I project the memory onto the room; it’s as easy as simply picturing it in my head and willing it into existence. The old gold-and-crimson-urn-patterned wallpaper, the delicate, cream-coloured curtains pulled back from the windows. A matching Persian carpet over the hardwoodfloor.

The furniture was all framed in teak, the cushions ivory and gold. Those were my favourite colours. When I snuck Gavin in the first time, I hid my dolls; I was so embarrassed by my blasted dolls. I didn’t want Gavin to see them. But there they areon the mantel where they used to sit before my father told me it was time to give up childish things and he gave them away.

Gavin takes in my old room, his expression flickering from wonder back to shuttered and cold. ‘Change it back.’

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring his tone. I’ve dealt with Kiaran for the longest time. Gavin is no match for me, even at his most hostile. ‘Memories mean everything,’I say, quoting him, ‘don’t you think?’

‘What is it you want me to recall?’ he asks, in that dead voice I don’t recognise. ‘The last time I was in this room, you kissed me. Or have you forgotten?’

In an instant, the room changes back to the one I designed. The paneledteak drops over smooth patterned wallpaper, and the carpet fades into wooden boards. The furniture disappears, except for the settee, stained by my greasy, oiled fingertips touching it as I rested after metalworking.

‘That was a long time ago,’ I say. ‘I just thought you’d be more comfortable.’

‘It wasn’t that much time for you.’

‘Long enough, Galloway,’ I say softly. He starts, staring at me in surprise. ‘What? Did I say something wrong?’

Gavin shakes his head, leaning back against the window seat. ‘You called me Galloway. No one’s called me that in a long time.’ At my confused expression, he explains, ‘I don’t have a title any more, Aileana. I don’t have lands. After everything that happened, it just seemed like a silly formality.’

‘You said you’d tell me everything,’ I say. ‘What happened while I was in theSìth-bhrùth?’

He stares up at the clicking gears that keep the electricity going, now connected to nothing. It takes so long for him to speak, minutes. ‘Aftertheycame – we lived in the abandoned ruins of villages first. Rounded up whoever survived. The fae found people and influenced them to betray our whereabouts.’ His voice shakes, and he swallows. ‘Every time we moved, they came into our villages at night to slaughter people. Those without the Sight never saw it coming.’

I watch his hands, how they toy with the fabric of his shirt as he speaks.

‘So you made the test.’ I try to keep the emotion out of my voice. I might understandwhy, but I don’t forgive him yet. Not for that. ‘With the wisps.’

He nods. ‘Humans are easily influenced by the fae. Another raid would leave our population decimated.’

I study the scars on his face, how they look as though one of the fae had made a grab for his eye and sliced through the flesh around it. The scars are faded now, so pale against his skin.

‘Hideous, aren’t they?’ His voice startles me, and I realise I must have been quiet for a while. I notice how his jaw tightens.

I shake my head. ‘Not to me.’ I can’t stop myself from reaching up, sliding my fingers down the four jagged scars above his brow. Finally, the single one that mars his cheek. ‘Your scars aren’t flaws, Galloway. They’re not imperfections. They’re stories written on your skin.’

‘Stories?’ It sounds like he thinks the idea is silly.

‘Aye,’ I say. ‘They tell the tale of how you survived. There’s no shame in that.’

He looks at me then. ‘And what stories do yours tell?’ he asks me. ‘Survival, too?’

I jerk away. Behind him, I notice my map, the one of Scotland on the far wall. The red ribbons tied around pins that signified Sorcha’s kills. I burned that maponce, scattered the pins on the floor. Now here it is again, complete and whole.

One time, I would have told Gavin that my scars told the tale of how I killed each fae. How I did it to train for the faery I most wanted dead. I would have pointed them out with pride; they were badges of victory. My scars told the tale of a girl who had stripped away the parts of her old self until nothing was left but the vengeful huntress from the mirrors.

The things that ended up mattering most in my prison had nothing to do with vengeance, or slaughtering the fae,or being a Falconer. They were dances. Laughter. Grief and friendship. Crushing embraces and hard goodbyes. Stolen kisses beneath a blood moon.

‘No,’ I say softly. ‘These tell how I became human again.’

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